billowy, billowy
clouds
sun
shining
over horizon
*****************************************
young avondale
red bud
gathers
sun
dreams of
growing
******************************************
lilies mutiply like rabbits
scratch their petals
don’t
understand
******************************************
sun gleams
through
spiderweb
trees
*******************************************
lined with gold
sky grows
old
*******************************************

follow a specific religion,
have a simple nomenclature,
not too many names,
not too many motions.
strip everything away
until there is
only a path between
yourself and deity.

i prefer theatre.
large, exaggerated
arm movements,
rich, hand sewn robes
which shine all the
way to the last pew.
chants sung in Tamil.
occasionally a priest
who can actually
sing.

think of yourself
as someone with a direct
connection to what is needed.
praising flowers in the field,
the grandeur of trees.
stand before the ocean
take a deep breath
challenge the roar of the waves.
your heroic sound is sucked
in by an enormous turtle.

“god is that you”
“is this the golden goddess?”

the answer comes in very soft sanskrit

there is a micro
amount of space
between the end of
one month and the next.
between february and
march
the micro space
is
mini-micro.
you must watch the
rising sun all morning,
watch the setting
sun at twilight.
just before it becomes
dark,
jump into the last piece
of dusk
(it’s very safe)
and you can explore
many questions
and search for
innumerable answers.
when a sun strip
rises in the next day,
pitter-patter
very soundlessly
upon the first patch
of morning sunlight.
you can carry
(with yourself)
new answers,
old questions

(for Brigitte)

my wrist bracelet
many colors, many shapes      
          falls     apart
shines              everywhere

              *****
3 gentle calla
                lilies
others wait
                in the wind

              *****

the gentle temple bell
      dances out
       the window
traffic buzzes

            *****

i whisper haiku
       in        a
         church
candles and saints
        listen

              *****
suddenly
everyone listened
everything stopped
everywhere        empty
                   om

              *****

before class
           clean    
           slates
remember beauty
expect nothing
hold         peace
               

it is so long since i built
a snowman

stopped by my frozen arms through
each winter
where snowflakes begin
and
dissolve
since my mind has opened into
cold, from my childhood
into the beauty of new fallen
white—

now i wonder how to capture
youth, (from a cloud
these haunting memories
of life) and hidden Love
sings Her most natural moment

and blushes it to all

— after which our separate hearts
become photographs
filled with beautifully, captured
thoughts

the velvet, ivory scarf
she wears around her neck
has shining, liquidbeauty
more delicate than cashmere.
as she stretches slowly, slowly
into sleepfulness
her legs become a softpurrsong;
an entire being
moving through magical,
rhythmic, lullabyes.
when you stroke her underside
it becomes a”don’t ever stop”
toy,
as her dark, perfect, pointed ears
deepen with delight.
she is the essence of a beautiful,
graceful,
goddess.
as you sink into her eyes
you are lost
knowing you’ll never want
to leave.
unless she pushes you away
with her strong, curling tail

( for Valkyrie)

it is so long since my heart has been
with yours

shut by our mingling arms through
a darkness where new lights begin
and
increase,
since your mind has walked into
my kiss as a stranger
into the streets and colours of a
town—

that i have perhaps forgotten
how, always(from
these hurrying crudities
of blood and flesh) Love
coins His most gradual gesture,

and whittles life to eternity

—after which our separating selves
become museums
filled with skilfully stuffed
memories

e.e.cummings

isn’t it amazing how the
1-2–3—4—-5—–six——seven——-
daffodils are a peaceful bunch,
no pushing, no shoving, no arguments.
they are all yellow but not
the same yellow, some dark,
some lighter, some not even
aware of their size or height.
each stem slants a certain way
in the middle of the winter.

if you close your eyes
all sound will become pianissimo
like daffodil fluttering.
you might even think it’s a
butterfly embryo.
i can tell that none of them
know when they were born,
none of them know when
they will kiss death
in the bitter cold of freezing.

it doesn’t matter or
so it seems to me
they wave and sway
they stretch toward the moon
they smile in the raining.
one is gone and then two
and then just a shadow,
across the sunset outline,
of what has been,
a remembrance of beauty.
tiptoe through the tulips
with me
during the winter







		

music.apple.com/us/album/sonata-in-c-sharp-minor-kk-246-allegro/1543755586

joseph asked to lie down
with the tall black king,
what did mary say about that?
she said it didn’t matter;
nothing was happening in their place.
all mary wants is a clean, comfortable
mattress, she’s having lower back problems.
you know the short king who is always
bowing and kneeling? yes–
he wants to sleep with that big bull
with the enormous horns.
he wanted to tell me all about it,
i cut him off.
what about jesus?
he just wants to have fun
doesn’t want to sleep throughout
the whole year, wants to laugh.
you said there was a serious
complaint, i would say so.
that two year old sheep standing
out in the field, wants to complain.
oh, about what?
she says she was left behind
for the entire holiday season,
nothing to eat but cardboard
and old pieces of fake snow,
she says she nearly died of
hunger and thirst.
she wants to complain.
what did you say?
i said she could complain to
jesus, joseph, mary or judas,
she never heard of judas,
i told her about the thirty
pieces of silver case;
she’s thinking about it;
she might be trouble.
you’d think that just one year
we could close the carton
without any complaints.